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Mememe, I and I.  

Date: Wednesday, 15 May 2013 08:39

The Internet stroll off last weekend, went into a far-off village, over two rivers, and drink bush-rum, that is, bushie. He drink 'til he pass out. A kind soul bring he back to town on Monday. He spend the day lolly-gaggling around, waking up, falling dunk to sleep, on and off. Otherwise, I woulda post this Meme.

Remember them? Memes? Apparently, they's still doing the rounds. One land on my doorstep the other day, twas Dinah, down unda, who send it to me. It was small and fluffy, like a white pigeon. I look at it and say yes, I can play with this.

Check it out and tell me what you think?

1     If I could change one thing in my life, what would that be?

I would learn to draw, and write music.

2    If I could repeat any age, what would it be?

Age as in era? Or age as in a time when I was...

Truth is, I ain't want to repeat no age. I like where me is and look forward to de future.

3   What really scares me?

De t'ing unda de bed.  It is waiting for me to pass too close, late at night, then it gon grab me ankle and bite. And there's them mini-bus drivers out there. And crime and violence. And every sort of illness known and unknown to man. And doctors with tubes and needles. The list can go on but I gon cut it short and...oh...suppose the sea-wall break away in we sleep and a really high tide come and...

4  If I could be someone else for a day, who and why?

I come back from living in The Island and hear the most amazing music in a film. Then another film. The music was so glorious, I share it with my best friend in the whole wide world. He get so excited, he google the man and send me the information, saying, He could be the Ravel of the East.

Can you guess who it is?

I am talking about A. R. Rahman, and I am proud to say, unlike some folks here, I didn't have to wait for the West to approve before I like.

Why I want to be he for a day?

I can soak up he music-talent, and pour it into my writing forever. I hope he wouldn't mind, but I hear he is a generous kinda chap. If you ever meet he, tell he for me, Hail up, as they say in The Island.

Now, I know people don't do Memes no more...but...I would love to see what spin Danwould put on this...and how Ale would turn this into something positive. Mm, if I can get Cloud in India to wake up...

Oooh, and thank you, Dinah, for this:

 Toodleoo see y'all soon, the sea is calm, for now.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

Power to the people!  

Date: Tuesday, 07 May 2013 06:24

Thanks to the ol' girl (as one brother does call she), I been able to pack-up me head-shelves with some juicy stuff.  

I got geography, chunks o' history full o' war, peace, fashion, Alexander the Great, Queen Elizabeth 2; Liz Taylor et al.  And don't lemme tell you about them characters from me childhood village - who kill who, and who mother help to wipe up the blood; who drown she-self because she love a boy she can't have; drunks, bad relatives.

The ol' girl does dole out too stories from books, insisting to me, read this, read this. 

Years now, she been stoking me with stuff from The Secret Power, a book that Marie Corelli write in 1921.

In this book, a beautiful, rich woman, Morgana, invent and fly a solar plane. She explain to she assistant that she is only using a substance that got exceptional capacity for receiving the waves of energy emanating from the sun and giving them off.

If you know how men back then did scoff at Marie Corelli for the way she useta write.

But me an' mammy did know that one day, a solar plane gon fly.

Well! Big Excitement this week!

They fly a solar plane from San Francisco Bay to Phoenix, Arizon.

 What a la-la!

Plenty things fly into me head with this news! Never laugh at the power of women who know, and who see things in advance.

And don't ever give up thinking that one day we gon have cheap solar pooters and...and...maybe poor people gon have information at their fingertips too, just like me 'n' you.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

Sisters.  

Date: Friday, 26 Apr 2013 18:17

Some sisters meet in a coven to sacrifice one who isn't there, and try to bleed she reputation.  Maybe there's  too many o' them so they can't appreciate.  But then again, I hear about a' elderly lady who got just one sister, yet she point-blank refuse to help she ailing sis.

All this come to mind the other day, on the birt'day of my one and only li'l sis.  I think about the journey that other sisters decide to take, after the childhood squabbles, to meet in friendship. Like me and my sistah...

...oh, wait...

...speakin' of birt'days...my sister wasn't born.  She drop down from a cokanut tree.

I know this because it is what my two big brothers did tell me about me when I was a tot. That piece o' news did upset me so bad, I tramp-up me feet and squeal like a piggy stick-up in a fence.  I just had to share this misery with somebody else one day. When the time was right, in the middle of a squabble, I inform my sister that she drop from a cokanut tree.

Heh.

Mammy [who I believe does exaggerate the virtues of she children] say that my sister walk and talk in 9 months. And, even before that, she dance in rhythm to a song with she hands in the air...at age 6 months.

Huh!

Me? No, no, I ain't jealous,  whaz wrong with you to ask me that?  Okay, okay, what you expect when you's 6 years old and suddenly a new baby jump in, braps, just so...

...huh!

All in all, I did try to be a good big sister, play the same tricks on she that two big brothers did to me.  Problem is, she got a mule-ish stubbornness that make she refuse to co-operate sometimes. 

Like on that morning when I wake up, lazy as any young teen can be after a long night sleep.  I call out to li'l sister.  If you coulda hear me, you woulda swear something bad did happen.  Li'l sista rush in, What, what? She worried-ness please me plenty, heh, I got she good now.

I point to them curtains, two-inches away from me.  "Open my curtains for me?" I ask, make sure I hide the giggle good.

Do you know! She had the nerve to be vex!  Suck she teeth and turn away.

"Please?" I add. 

She continue walking.  At this point, I had to take strong measures. 

"Pleeeease?" I beg.

She leggo one big sigh loaded with disgust, turn back, pull open them curtains and leave.  

Oh!  What joy when I discover, not long after, that li'l sister did land on earth on Kim Il Sung birt'day, oh the teasing, tee hee hee.

You might ask, what a set of 3rd world children know about that man? Plenty, lemme tell you, we had North Korean neighbours once upon a time.  But this is not about that man, this is about the gal who hurry so quick to drop from the cokanut tree, she just choose a random date and, baps, there she was.

And now, look, here me is, admitting, yeh, my li'l sister can shake like Shakira.  (Don't ask she to sing though).  

I ain't braggin' or nothing, but...

...gimme a chance to tell you one itsy-bitsy story that show the spirit of my sis, the sorta spirit that draw humans and other critters around she.

It was a Sattiday morning, she been sitting in a football (I think them Mericans say soccer) field in Florida. I guess, as per normal, she been shamelessly shouting encouragement to Imu, she first-born son.  In the midst of it, she text me.

A bird sit on everybody chair n wont move n he fly round screamin n he comin n sittin on me knee. Then i realize he thirsty n i open my bottle, pour some water in a cap n give he.

He drink? I ask.

Yes, she reply, i hold de cap n he drink, i talk to he, I say, you thirsty nah? Oww, is only lil bit o' water u did want. he cock he head, listn n drink. He is a blu jay, i name he jay.

Well...finally and in conclusion, even though this last sentence is a non-sequitor and don't have nothing to do with the above, I believe that my li'l sister is the great kid she is thanks to me, I ain't know how, but I am working on proving it, heh.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

In this city of farts.  

Date: Saturday, 13 Apr 2013 19:37

The stench of rotten cabbage boiling in renk fish water and dead-body fluids rise up around me, Thursday morning in town.  The only words I could find to describe it was the words of a six-year-old Panamanian boy I never meet.

The li'l boy did tell my Panamanian-Jamaican friend, "Teacher, my father farts so stink, it can kill a nation."

"Puede matar una nacion."  It can kill a nation.

The child Spanish words come to me as I cross the road from Guyana Stores, go towards the pavement by the museum.

"Ewwww," I exclaim to a woman who bounce by with high heel shoes and black office skirt, screwing-up she face. "You can say that again," she say.

A vendor call out to me, "It come from the canal."

I dare to look over the faded ol' white bridge.

Behind the museum, a wet black sludge rise like a monster-creature in the canal. Plastic bottles and Styrofoam food-boxes lay like dead swamp-things in watery parts o' the sludge.

I move away before I faint.

"That mud is my height," the vendor say. I guess that must be over five feet.  

The vendor dark eyes turn light-brown with fire. "That canal is a main conduct, it should run clean-clean to the  river.  Every day, hundreds o' people pass here, foreigners too, if you see how they react to that smell.  And we have to be in it whole day."

It baffle me, how they can bear that smell from morning 'til afternoon. Ribbon and hair-accessories ladies; chaps with mosquito-net in vivid lingerie-colours; perfume ladies; men hawking souvenir tee-shirts, cow-and-goat-skin wallets and belts; newspaper people; alphabet-charts and bootleg-DVD men.  They do what they got to do 'cause they got lives to care for, while all around them, the city is rapidly fulling-up with humonguous concrete-coffins that some call modern structures.

The vendor say, "We did form a delegation and go to City Hall, and they say is not their responsibility, it is Water and Sewerage people who must clean it. Nobody don't want to do nothing. They just want to kill people.  All o' them driving in their air-condition Prado, window up.  They don't walk so they don't know, they don't care about what people need."

Why don't they care, how can they not care? I worry while the vendor rant, he eyes on fire.  Oh, I know, farts don't have feelings.

I drive home in this ol' car that don't have a/c, windows down. Bits and pieces o' conversation on the street flutter in, and fried-chicken, burger, pastry and curry smells waft in, then the sea.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

What my ears told me this afternoon.  

Date: Tuesday, 09 Apr 2013 08:36

Outside, through this window in front o' me, rain is shakin' down in thick, wet, silver clumps. Them leaves in the tree is so plump-up with glee, they can't move, as if their bellies is stuff-up with coolness 'n' damp after so many scorching, thirsty days.

Pieces o' heavy-grey sky, peeping between them branches, is lulling-up me eyes.

Normally, I would hear the rain on the zinc roof, woosha-waaha, woosha-waaha, woyyyy.  But I ain't hearing nothing this minute, 'cos right now, I's washin' me ears with Purple Rain.

T'was in The Island, where I useta live one time, that me gal-pal Al did introduce me to the music of Prince...long-long after he became famous.

I useta play that ol' cassette every weekend-morning, when dove-calls in them trees coo-up me ears with loneliness and I curl up in me bed with that mood.  Then July-August months fry-down so hot, the concrete of my little home bake me like I was four-and-twenty black birds in a pie.  Finallyyy, the late year bring sheets o' rain, page upon page o' wet crystal-notes, tappin' tunes on the concrete.

After that rain - stillness. Mist drift upon them mountain-tops all around the city, like a music-conductor signalling, soff-soff. And coming like a song o' promise,  was the smell o' green-ess, flowing from them mountains.

Purple Rain is over now.  The rain-show here is done too. Swish-swish, go the slushy-slusha wet traffic wheels by the seawall, braa-daaap, blow the truck horn like a trumpet, a li'l outta tune like we police band.  The tree outside this window is shivering  to a li'l dance-beat and a kiskadee-bird just sing out kiskadeeee, calling Encore or Bravo, I ain't know, I have one good ear and one bad ear thanks to Dr. Quack when I was a child, and I's just too glad to hear.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

Sweet cuts, sour cuts...  

Date: Tuesday, 02 Apr 2013 16:30

This week-end somebody share out power-cuts as if a man been doling out dollars to the poor to buy he way to heaven. 

It was kite-season, and kites tengle-up with electric wire...pfffft...the lights gone off.

This morning, I go to English-tutor the wife of a big foreign man, he greet me in the corridor, How are you and I grumble about the power-cuts. He say, "It is disgraceful. With all this wind and sunlight, your country should be using that for power, it is much cheaper instead of trying to get hydro-electricity."

"Please, tell the folks in charge for me," I say and stab the wall of the corridor with me finger to emphasize me feelings.

But later, I been thinking, dreaming again...yet again...of selling these power-cuts.

I can hide 'em in a big, black cloak and whisper to potential buyers like I's selling some dark 'n' dirty secret (people love Dark 'n' Dirty).

Or I can stand on a cart like the snake-oil man in pioneer America and tell people what power-cuts do for me.

Depending on the time of day or night, a power-cut can make me feel as if I eat something sweEeeEet, so sweet like Auntie M. sugah-cakes...grate the cokanut and cook it down with sugar, a li'l bit of milk and two drops o' essence.  

If the power-cut happen in the day when the sun is just dapplin', warm and mellow, I can go downstairs into the east side of the yard and stand up and listen to them tree-leaves telling me things I ain't undastand but feel deep in me spirit until me head sigh a long-glorious sigh, saying, Ahhhh, this is life.

But when I am watching tall, handsome men on tee-vee detective shows, a power-cut can make me turn sowah like lime-juice blend-up with vinegar.

"Buy it for romance, or buy it to dash on people you don't like..."  That is how I would sell these power-cuts.

I would give out free samples too, I'm generous like that.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

A note to the Seawall Mender.  

Date: Thursday, 28 Mar 2013 11:56

Dear Mender of the Seawall,

There is a hole in the wall...or was, if you fix it since I  did last see it on Tuesday morning.

It is not a small hole, the kind that the li'l Dutch boy did plug up with a finger and save the whole town.

It is not a giggling, merry ol' hole that you can laugh at.

This hole ain't no joke, that is why I am writing you to ask you to fix it. It is just waiting to tear skin or break legs.

It is on top of the wall where people walk or jog. 

It is long, from left to right. It is almost one foot wide at one end. If a child is running and don't see it, and a little foot drop in...if somebody is walking in the dusk or before sunrise, and they don't know it is there...oh no!

It is close to the pretty li'l brick house, which I think is the Liliendaal pumping-station.  Just cross over the fat rope that lead to the three fishing boats rockin' in the morning sun, and there it is.  The Ocean View Hotel with the peeling paint does look on to this hole.  It ain't far from the cokanut trees that sway with tropical paradise in their fronds.

I did stare into the innards of the wall, and though it was dark inside, I could see the broken pieces of the  wall.  I did wonder if it was the sea that do the damage or vandals.

Please, Mender of the Seawall, please fix the hole, for it really ain't no joke.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

100 years.  

Date: Friday, 15 Mar 2013 15:54

"Daddy, did you go running barefoot with the lions Back Home?" them two sons does tease their father.

I ain't know what yarn my brother-in-law does spin to his two teen-sons, but he sure can weave a good tale.  I ain't know if it is a part of the Indian 'heritance to tell a good story, or if he learn it, being born and bred in Mombasa.

One night, around the small, square Miami-kitchen table, he spell-bind me and mammy to we chairs, filling we ears with stories about escape to Love 'n' Joy, the ice-cream parlour in Mombasa (what a name for a' ice-cream place), and what fun he and his teen friends had on the beach, playing volley-ball with tourists.

Life was a kaleidoscope, spin, turn, ocean blue, glittering with water-diamonds, sand like powder, colours sparkle through the eyes of youth, looking back.

Today is he birthday and they gon have a dinner at home - my sister and he and their two teens-boys who plan to put one hundred candles on the cake, oh mischievous nephews.

And when he really is 100, Insha'Allah, I wish for him the best memories ever, I wish for him the happiest of days in 'Merica and wherever they travel for holidays, today, tomorrow, so that he can keep on spinning bright tales to generations on.

Happy birthday, brother-in-law, thanks for tolerating me around whenever I'm there!

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

The beast.  

Date: Thursday, 07 Mar 2013 07:35

Once upon a time, I did read about the Stanford Prison experiment, where some folks was pretend-prisoners and others was pretend-guards.

Before you know it, something wild and frightening seize the minds o' them pretend-guards.  They start to abuse the pretend-prisoners. The people who run the experiment was shocked. They put a stop to it immediately. Up to this day, that experiment still shock people. 

Over the years, I learn more about this wild and frightening thing that did seize the minds o' them pretend-guards.  I realise we call it power.  

Recently, I start to call it the red-eye beast that can whisper in you' head and tell you to do unspeakable things.

I look around me, at how this beast can or cannot, does or does not, affect all relationships. Man-woman, man-man, woman-woman, parent-child, teacher-student, boss-employee, soldiers-prisoners, government-citizens, citizen-citizen, drivers-behind-wheels, police-citizen. 

In healthy relationships, there ain't no place for the beast.

At least they was able to stop the Stanford experiment.

What does happen in real life when not a soul can stop the beast?

In Kitty where I did live as a chile, I did see a neighbour strip she boy-chile nekkid in the yard, and she lash he from head to toe with a' electric wire. The chile scream and beg and wail. People try to stop she but all she could hear was the thing raging in she head, urging she on and on and on.

I switch on the tv yesterday lunch-time, a tiny girl-chile is singing in the children's competition. "Throw away de wild cane and please don't beat me, please don't beat me," she is pleading to the unseen teacher in she song.

Last night, the news is discussing again something so horrible I can't watch. A man in a police uniform is beating a' Amerindian woman and a child, on and on and on, face with the same expression like the mother in Kitty, and quite possibly, like them who did torture the young teen boy in prison and burn he genitals.

Oh, please, can we stop the beast like they did stop the Stanford experiment? 

Prof. Zimbardo, who write 'bout the experiment, he say, "It does tell us that human nature is not totally under the control of what we like to think of as free will, but that the majority of us can be seduced into behaving in ways totally atypical of what we believe we are."

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

The great tax-eaters.  

Date: Wednesday, 20 Feb 2013 11:28

Recently, I been to pay thirty-three and one third percent of me earnings so that others can eat.

They call it Consumption Tax, or to be more specific, General Consumption Tax. 

I ain't know who General is, but oh boy, he or she sure consume a lot, not just we money.

We time and we energy too. 

Sooner than later, General and the Consumption people gon call or send a letter saying, You didn't pay.  I gon go to see them, froff at the mouth like Mrs. Harry Dan, tear up me garment and roll on the ground, they gon look at me like the clock - implacable - and repeat, like a robot: I'm sorry ma'm, it's not in the computer.

Computer was sapposed  to save we-the-people.

They promised we this in the years B.C. [Before Computers].

Yep, they did actually verbalise this promise to my mother one day, in the years B.C.

She was at a guvament office trying to help she brother-in-law living Overseas.  The staff in Georgetown could find no record of the po' man's pension payment.  They said it was all the way in Berbice, across the river. 

"You can go there and look after it," said the staff.

"Oh," said my mother in a voice that sound like hot pepper, if hot pepper could speak, " I will gladly go if you pay for the taxi to take me there.  I will look after business for you too."

I ain't know what guvament staff is like in civilised countries, but here, them is like hard-mouth rum drinkers.  Every citizen here know that full-time rum-drinkers consume tons o' pepper to make their food taste better.  

The staff watch my mother as she stew, wondering what to do.

Finally, one o' them melt a li'l bit and say, "Don't worry.  One day we will get computers."

"And who is going to programme the computers?" my mother ask.  "The same pack of dummies that you have in here!"

But between you 'n' me, I don't think them is dummies.  

I think they get kinky watching we-the-citizens froff and fume.  There's not much entertainment around town, y'see.   They sit in the lunch-room and compare people's reactions, and place bets as to who bring down the most citizens. 

I bet one hot winner is the slim miss, dusky-skin and dolled up, spurting a li'l cleavage, and flaunting she long, straight hair in the cashier-cage.

I meet she when I go to the Albert Street branch for the first time last year.

She look at me tax return and say, "You didn't pay taxes for two years."  She quote Accounting Words so big, me po' head couldn't hold them in.

"What?  I've been paying consistently at the GPO building on Robb Street," I cry.

She watch me squirm like a worm turning every colour with rage.

"I'm sorry, ma'm, It's not in the computer," she sneer.

I ain't see she at the shiny, new office this year.  But I know she is hiding, waiting to send that letter.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

The merry ol' holes.  

Date: Wednesday, 13 Feb 2013 08:10

There was a hole, a big ol' hole in a busy road in town.  Around this hole, a thriving tourist industry could'a been.

There could'a been a fishing pond with people ketching fish, frying 'n' selling with thick slabs o' soft, hot plait bread, and enamel mugs with steaming tea that look just like the water in the hole.  Better yet, people could'a sell ice-cold sof' drinks in plastic bottles. Thirst quenched, tourists could'a learn how to pelt empty plastic bottles into the hole.  Aaah boy, there could'a been vendors o' newspapers and honey-roasted peanuts, and sellers of pink, green and butter-yellow mosquito nets.

But in these here parts, somebody's always tryin' to keep the small man down. 

A jealous saboteur cover up the hole.

For a while, all was tame.

Then two new little holes pop up.

A few weeks gone I pass them in we ol' car, and I swear to you, Dear Readers, they was giggling tee hee hee.  Like they know something we-the-citizens don't know.  I try to listen to what they was snickering about, but they scoot away from me.

As I go along me way, I notice quite a few merry ol' holes all around town. 

Seems there's a hole-y revolution going on or something, I mutter to meself. 

Nosy parker that I am, every time I drive by now, I try to hear what them holes is plotting. 

But all they do is laugh and shake and skitter off.

Aw well, I console meself,  life is a journey and along the way, you gon encounter a whole lot o' holes. Some you gon understand, but some o' them is so deep, you gon think they's discussing philosophy in Argle Bargle, and you gon never know what...

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

The night the cat roared.  

Date: Friday, 25 Jan 2013 07:35

Y'see that kitty-cat napping out there, rockin', swaying in she sleep? And when she wake up, she lap-lap-lap?

Yeah, many a sunrise-morning, I would stand on the sea-wall and stare out at she, and I think how we ocean is a cute li'l kitty, lappin' an' playin' skippety-friskily with cokanut shells and drift wood and leaves.

That is not to say I don't know she can be a beast. I see it on the news, what she do to other countries. But for peace of mind, I does fool meself that she would come to shore here like a' old pet strolling, long brown fur fluttering, edged with frilly white.

In fact, I thought she was strolling one evening last week when I smell the brine. It was such a groovy smell - fish and corals, romance and yachts and sailing to me dreams.

Ha! Salt me in the sun like cod-fish, tell me I am mad like shad! (I am being jokey like this because if I don't pretend to laugh, I would cringe with fear like the skin-and-bones creature that used to be a dawg until somebody abandon it on the sea-side of the wall).

That evening last week, I look out the windows and what do I see?

Water in we street, in we driveway, thick and dark in the night, looking very much like the elusive oil the drillers been searching for out there, digging and up heaving the seabed.

Further north, past the roads, over the wall, water rising mo' high than I ever see in all me whole life growing up here.

Water dashing into the air like thousands o' wild cats big like elephants.

"Did you take a photo?" I ask my dear Irish auntie, across the road from me, mo' close to the sea.

"I couldn't bear to do that," she reply with a tremor in she voice. "It was higher than last year."

Last year, in February, March or April, I don't remember when, I didn't see the animal rise up in the night, but I did see the message it leave under we house next morning. Thick-thick, glossy mud like grey-brown icing-sugar glazing the entire yard.

This year, the mud was mo' thick.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

The terrible, awful American 'flu.  

Date: Tuesday, 15 Jan 2013 11:21

"Long time no see. Welcome back. How you do?" Amar the young fruit-vendor greet.

"I ketch the terrible, awful American flu, the one they talking about in the news over there," I say. 

Saturday morning was the first time I really appreciate we good ol' Guyana sun (GOGS) while buying me fruits and veggies. The GOGS warm-up me cockles...though I must admit, I ain't know what 'cockles' is, I only read about it in books.  I think it is somewhere in me lungs, because as soon as the GOGS shine upon me back, the thought pop into me head, Ahhh, the GOGS is warming me cockles.

I believe that all that air-conditioning in America ain't good, I believe it is what gimme the fever and the hot-and-cold shivers and the cough and the mean, green glob in me chest.  But, I must admit, if a certain auntie (I ain't naming names) did wash shehands before she touch me tea-mug, I swear I wouldn'ta ketch the 'flu.

Amar the fruit-vendor is working up a response, I can see he mixing mischief with a smile in he face. "Well, at least you bring back something from America," he say.

He mother laugh quiet-quiet as she arrange them apples.

As sick as I be, I laugh too. As we does say, If we don't laugh, we gon cry.

Truth to tell, this was the first response from we-the-people that ain't scare me. As soon as we-the-people hear about a sickness, we does talk about who-and-who dead from it.

Whops, right off the bat, one cousin in America tell me, "You must be careful, one friend didn't take all her medication and she died in her sleep."

I tremble with fright at that, but Mr. Abdool the taxi-driver make me shake as if I had the ague.

From Florida, I phone he in Guyana to arrange a pick-up for me at we airport. "Assalamalaikum, how you do?" he say. Then he voice rise. "You got to be careful with tha' 'flu, babe. It make one whole set o' people in America kick the bucket."

I know it is we-the-people's way of saying, Take care, look after yourself. But, as a True-Born-Hypochondriac, fright 'n' fear 'n'  terror make me avoid buckets since I come home.

I rest me bag on Amar stool to think better about things. "You know, I didn't ketch this dammm 'flu. Ketching something mean you run after it 'cause you want it. I hide from the bleddy thing but it ketch me," I declare.  

Quick as a wicked wink, Amar respond. "Well, at least America give you something."

Being a generous gal, and...y'know...they say sharing is good, I contemplate briefly coughing in he face.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

Family and the wild life in Florida.  

Date: Friday, 21 Dec 2012 08:21

I am visitin' them immigrants, that is, my family, in Florider, and as usual on a Sunday morning, everything start out sweet 'n' civilised, like bread and jam and tea.

Sunshine is chilling in a cool wind while in the house everybody's talkin' their own thing all at once.

I'm on the phone with Cousin Lis who live in the boondocks far from Miami, which, as we all know from watching tee vee, is the center of action in America.

According to Cousin Lis, noooo thing don't happen in the boondocks.  To get there, you got to yawn your way through Alligator Alley, past hay an' ponds an' men with baggy pants dropping down their bums. Cousin Lis does work in a' academic institution'til night, she don't see daylight much, po' thing. To give she a li'l taste o' life, I paint descriptions of the goings-on around me.

All around me, domesticity is co-operating for this special day. Sister is preparing food for my birthday, December 16, which, in case nobody ain't know, is Beethoven birthday. And Noel Coward. Mammy is cutting veggies, kuuchuuup-kuuuchup, at the kitchen table. Long-tall, cool, 15 year-old nephew nicknamed Imu, is Swiffer-mopping the dining-room, and brother-in-law is dusting and tidying.

13 year-old nephew, nicknamed Shasho, slide open the glass-door in the dining-room, step out to the patio to check on school egg-speriment. Eggs in covered, see-through plastic cups half-full with plain soda or cola. The egg-shell was cracked, proving that not all things sweet is good. Sister yell instructions and somewhere in she hollering  you hear notes and photos. The boy nod and ignore.

Suddenly, domesticity crack like Shasho egg-shell in de soda. 

"Look, a goose out there." Mammy who been peeping through the other glass-door behind she, hollar out. 

"That ain't no goose," I say. "Thaz a duck...two ducks! Ohmegosh, yes, look, a goose!"

The trio's a-picking and a-digging in de garden, thiefin' them worms that Shasho fatten with food scraps.

Somebody holler, Take pictures, and Shasho run in for a camera. 

Cousin Lis on de phone in de boondocks perk up. "Ketch it and curry it," she instruct.

(Don't worry enviro'ment people, that is a family joke about how we coolie people like to curry everything).

I call across de kitchen to brother-in-law. "Hey, A., you know how to make meat hallal?"

Hallal or as the Jews say, Kosher, we answer to a Higher Authority. You got to say a prayer to bless the meat, cut the animal neck a certain way then let the blood bleed out.

Brother-in-law mumble, and sister announce, "Shasho know how."

Like a' army general, the goose turn to face me nephew with the camera. 

No, not to pose.

The goose stiffen he neck. He eye and he face take on a certain look. As we-the-people Back Home would say, Warrish.

Lemme tell you. I know all about goose attacking people. Mammy regale we with plenty tales from she childhood, she's regaling again as we gaze at de goose.

"Run, Shasho," I holler.

"Ohhhhh me Lawd, it gon attack," mammy cry out. Then continue regaling.

"The only thing about goose is that they too fatty," Cousin Lis is saying into the phone in a tone like we's at a' artsy-fartsy party discussing French food.

My sister, in great excitment, cry out, Waggawagulywah. Brother-in-law repeat it backwards, Hawylugawaggaw.

Shasho pick up he heels and giddyup like a horsie at Kentucky Derby. Po' boy, he forget about the step-up by the glass-door. Whops, he hit he foot.

"Look at Imu," I say to Cousin Lis who can't see through the phone...we ain't that evolved as yet to have phones that transmit pictures as we talk.

Imu is leaning on the Swiffer stick, he lips curl from end to end in amusement, he huge, dark eyes full-up with merriment, and he shirtless shoulders is shaking with silent laughs.

Baapa and Ma, me nephews' other grandparents arrive for lunch, and we tell them about the goose. Suddenly, Brother-in-law remember. "The goose takes care of the ducks, he's always with them, they live by the lake..."

Well, thaz the nextodd thing about Miami. Them developers dig big ponds near housing communities, and they call the ponds "lakes"  to fancy them up. Then they let the geese and the 'gators loose.

But never mind them, I'm having fun with the fambly. Only trouble is, we's going to let loose in the boondocks with mo' cousins and spouses and mo' chil'ren this weekend. Them po' neighbours there might well think the world is ending then... 

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

FOooOOooOD oh wonderful foooOOOOood!  

Date: Wednesday, 19 Dec 2012 14:46

While I get my act together to tell you where I am, and about de fam'ly in Florida [hint hint], check out these yummy Caribbean food blogs...y'know, just in case you want something deliciously different for Christmas:

Cynthia does cook up food that Tastes like home

and 

Wizzy does whip up Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner (and punch).

Remember to wipe yer mouths before you drool on de keyboard.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

Designer dawg.  

Date: Friday, 07 Dec 2012 11:02

Through the clotted grey that Friday afternoon, I spot he, the dawg.

Don't know if he been shopping for food or what, there he been, in front o' the supermarket, by the roadside, at the top o' the hand-size parking-lot that hold ten cars.

Ain't nothing special about he, just a plain ol' kangalang, a couriat, a brown mongrel. All o' we stray dawgs is a variation o' brown. White dawgs is rare. Black 'n' brown ones is regular. But brown is the most popular colour.

Something was different about this dawg though.

Wasn't the fact that he was shine like he was getting regular food.

He was flashin' out in a striped tee-shirt. Never mind that it was a' old, hang-down, wash-out, black 'n' white 'n' yellow tee. You just don't see dawgs in clothes in these parts.

I stand there amused, a li'l worried, looking at he.

Along come a man, a long, lean, fifty-something years old man of mixed ancestry. I hear-say he useta live in Englan'. I does greet he good morning as he pass me working in we garden. I get to saying hi because o' the Exceptional Dog he does take care of, walking it every morning. 

The Exceptional Dog is as big as a cow-calf, and is barely a year old; he got fur so luxurious-long, I hope Peta don't pelt he with paint to protest...y'know how controversial they can be.

The Exceptional-Dog walking-man surprise me that gloomy aftanoon.  I thought he would be a dog-snob after dealing with such a high-brow dog.

But he stop in mid-stride, look at me looking at the tee-shirt dawg. 

He look at de dawg.  He grey eyes shine like blue. He grin.

"Eh-eh, you wearing a nice tee-shirt there, man, a fancy tee-shirt," he say.

I laugh and move closer to the dawg to examine the tee-shirt.

A GAP label on the neck pop into me eye-sight so sudden, I nearly fall down.

The dog turn to the road, lift one paw. He had a li'l anxious look on he face.

"You think it is hurt?" I ask.

"No, he ain't hurt. He just uncomfortable with the tee-shirt, he not accustomed to it."

Suddenly, another voice call from the quiet of the aftanoon. Outta the corner o' me eye I glimpse a man strolling on, shoulder-length locks and baggy clothes.

"Where ya pants, man?" he call out.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

There's a wild thing on the roof!  

Date: Thursday, 29 Nov 2012 07:56

I can hear it, yes, I can hear every sound. Can't interpret the words but the meanness transcend language and I can understand them screams.

It is as stink as the cussing of a cow-dung vendor-man living by a tannery.

It vicious like a vicissitude with long, sharp teeth and claws, biting and scraping the zinc up there.

I swear, it sound as if Mrs. Harry Dan is tramping up there, rollin' she eyes, foamin' at the corners of she mouth.

Or a zealot waging war.

No, no, don't tell me it is rain.

I know it ain't.

Okay, yes, it is rain, and I must stop being Cowardly-Cat cringing in a corner.

Yes, yes, I bring up me long boots to put them on so I can tread through the low-slinking water to open the gate.

This morning at 5 a.m. I wake up trembling with worry whether or not a snake could be hiding in one o' them boots...

...I did attack one the other day, y'know, it been in the garden, a leeel, tiny one.  You never know, the snake family could be lookin' for revenge.

Aiye yai yai, what a kla-tastrophe on me.

I done drink me tea, the yalla enamel cup is cold. Now I must go cringe in the bathroom as I face a chilly shower, then wend me wonky way out...

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

Angela Cropper.  

Date: Tuesday, 27 Nov 2012 07:58

We ain't ships in the night.  Ships are only things, they come, they go, they don't feel. We are the people in the ships.  And we leave impressions on others as we pass. Sometimes, we come on land to do and be much more.

Then we's gone.

"He will replace the late Angela Cropper," the newsreader say on Sunday evening.

I look up from me email, confusion knocking me sideways. "The late" means the person die. I rush to the phone.

"Yes," my Irish auntie say.

It was through my Irish Auntie and the Whistling Doc. that I did meet she and she husband a few times, briefly. Living life mostly in me head as always, I did define them to myself in me own way. They was the rainforest-and-writers couple, a Trinidad woman married to a' Englishman.

But even in that short time, I did catch  a whiff o' something warm, gentle, in them.

They did lose a son, their only child. In his memory, they did start a foundation to help budding writers in the Caribbean to keep their son spirit alive.

"You have to come to our writers' workshop in Trinidad," John Cropper would smile and tell me. Once, at a' Iwokrama rainforest evening, he come over, smiling, and sit with Irish auntie and me. He wife was showing the crowd a documentary that haunt me ever since.  Innocence chopped down because of greed. Indonesia rainforest people and animals dispossessed.

Then John Cropper, and Angela mother and she sister was murdered at home in Trinidad, and the house was robbed.

She come to Guyana for his memorial service.  I did just want to convey how sorry I was, so I go with Irish auntie and she to the service. That night, the Amerindian people give she a gift they did make. A picture, embroidery or collage, details gone, but I remember how touched she been.

"How does she cope?" I ask my Irish auntie.

"She has strong faith," she say.

For years, the family tragedy, she, the documentary, pass through me mind.

Then two weeks ago, she pass from this world.

Yesterday I been thinking how she was one o' them who did come on land to be more, to do so much more. Without destroying a single rainforest tree, she cut a path for we Caribbean women to follow.

Memorial to Angela Cropper.

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

Chris Brown cancelled.  

Date: Friday, 23 Nov 2012 06:55

I read it online last night, Chris Brown cancel he show here because o' protests against what he do to Rihanna in '09.

The protests send a strong and sad message about domestic violence here.

But the men and the women who need the help most, the ones who need therapy, they gon hear?

And what about political violence, when women get beat-up then, in me lovely native land, and women groups stay silent? What kinda message that is sending out?

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"

     

My not-so secret pleasure.  

Date: Wednesday, 21 Nov 2012 11:46

Ah don't drink.

Ah don't smoke.

Ah don't do coke.

Ah don't carouse at night like de cat in de rum-shop.

Ah don't eat meat.

Ah don't blah-blah, on and on, like de pseudo-intellectuals here about politics.

Man look, I got to have one li'l  vice, eh?

Everybody who know me does laugh when they hear why I am rushing home soon after 4 o' clock in de aftanoon.

Yes, yes, I am watching de Young an' de Restless.

One woman tell me that she ex-hubby used to hide de tee-vee, he lock it up, because he ain't want she to watch that show. 

Oh, shame on me for relishing it so freely, weyyyy hey!

Dis remind me of de email I did send, a couple o' years ago, to a Trinidad gal-pal I meet at university in The Island.

"Girl, if you only know! After we graduated, I didn't want to see a book for two years," I tell she.  "Some Friday afternoons, after a tough week of television production, I ain't want to go nowhere, do nothing. So I would go to the drug-store, buy a True Confession magazine. I would have dinner early, shower, jump into bed with my magazine and a mug of chocolate milk. Joy!"

"Me too," she reply. "I was so ashamed...I would hide it in a book and read!"

Why?

Why we women here got to be ashamed like that?

Author: "Guyana-Gyal (noreply@blogger.com)"